


Fortunate

by rachel614 (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Drug Use, parenting is hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 02:24:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17417240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/rachel614
Summary: He’d known he’d get in trouble if he were caught, butthis—this wasn’t trouble. He felt as though he’d made to jump a crack, but the crack had widened into a chasm in front of his feet.————Will Holmes gets caught just after using, and finds out that some wounds leave scars.Rated T for implied drug use.





	Fortunate

**Author's Note:**

> For my parents—  
> I realize more and more each day  
> How much you love  
> How much you hurt  
> How wise you are  
> How good you are  
> How fortunate I am  
> To call myself yours.

Will Holmes crept into his house, hoping to sneak past his parents before they caught him.

He’d made it a few steps before he heard a throat clear. Will froze, cursing his luck. His mother, he might have been able to fool. His father, he knew, would see the truth the instant Will turned around. He’d see the quality of his pupils, the barely repressed energy- he’d know immediately. But there was no hope for it. Will turned, bracing himself for the inevitable anger.

 

He was unprepared for the utter devastation in his father’s face.

“Will?” His mum stepped into the darkened hall, glancing first at Will, then at his father. Something dark glinted in his mother’s eyes, and her mouth set in a hard line. Will suddenly realized his mother wouldn’t have been as easy to fool as he’d thought.

“Kitchen. Now.” She gave his father a gentle push that belied the anger in her voice. Will swallowed, hard, and followed.

“You two, upstairs. We’re going to have a private conversation with your brother, and I _mean_ private.” Will’s brother and sister left the kitchen without so much as a grumble. Everyone knew that when Mum spoke in that tone, you listened.

 

They sat down at the table, his parents across from him. His father’s face was composed now—expressionless. Mum was still angry, but also worried. She laid a hand across his father’s arm, and Will realized she was worried about _Dad_. He bit his lip, nervously. He’d known he’d get in trouble if he were caught, but _this_ —this wasn’t trouble. He felt as though he’d made to jump a crack, but the crack had widened into a chasm in front of his feet.

“Will—“ Mum started, her voice anguished, but a motion from Dad stopped her.

“How many times?”

“This was the third,” Will admitted, his voice cracking. Mum let out a half sob, and Dad passed a hand over his face. When he lowered it, he looked at Will, and his eyes were tired.

He lifted his arm, and rolled up his sleeve in short, precise motions.

“Do you know what these are?” Dad spoke softly, and Will stared in horrified fascination. He’d never seen his father’s bare arms before. He always, always kept them covered, and now Will knew why.

“Um. Track marks,” he said, in a small voice.

“More accurately, the scars of track marks. I haven’t used anything stronger than a nicotine patch in eighteen years. But before that I nearly killed myself, several times over. More than that, I alienated and nearly lost the people who mattered most to me. John. Mycroft. Greg. Your mother.”

 

Will was speechless. His father was Sherlock Holmes, the great detective. He’d grown up dodging paparazzi. Knew that his father had been featured in the tabloids countless times. Knew too, that there were secrets his parents and their friends kept. Secrets about his father, about his Aunt Eurus and why she was locked away, even secrets about Rosie’s mum. But he’d never guessed this. Never guessed that his father, the great detective, had once used drugs so regularly that the scars remained nearly two decades later, ugly white and brown splotches marring his father’s pale skin. He felt his eyes burn, and he didn’t know if he was angry and disappointed or relieved because his father might—might— _understand_.

 

Dad reached across the table and took Will’s hands, and Will looked into his eyes and saw that he did understand.

“Listen to me, son,” he said, and the words came with an intensity Will has never seen in his father before. “I know the boredom, the loneliness—the ecstasy as the drug hits your bloodstream. But I also know what it is to crave it, day and night. To watch as the people you love most in the world turn from you in horror and disgust, and to feel that you deserve it. I know what it is to weep for shame even as you cry out in release. Listen to me, my son, when I tell you that _it is not worth it_. It will _never_ be worth it.”

 

Will didn’t realize he was crying until his mother slid around the table and wiped at his cheeks with a hanky. A sob choked him, and he turned his face into her side and wept like a child. Her arms wrapped around him, and he felt her own thin form shake.

“My baby. Oh, my baby boy.”

“I won’t— I’ll never—“ he couldn’t get the words out, but he felt Dad squeeze his hand tightly, and knew he didn’t need to.

“Don’t think this means you aren’t in trouble, William.” His father’s voice was smooth and cultured again, with only a trace of gruffness. He felt his mother’s shaky laugh.

“That’s right. Grounded for a month. Definitely no pocket money.”

”Three months. But his pocket money is accrued in one of our accounts, so he can make an approved purchase if he needs to.” Will bit his lip, half smiling, as his parents negotiated his punishment. Oh yeah, he was in tons of shite. But the crack that had threatened to swallow him had closed, and the part of him that had _wanted_ to get caught—the part that had brought him home before he’d completely come down, that had led him to try and sneak in the front instead of the back window—that part clung to his father’s words like a light in the darkness.

 

-x-x-x-

 

Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway, watching his son’s sleeping form. With a small sigh, he shut the door, and leaned his head against the cool wood. He heard Molly’s soft footsteps, and so was unsurprised at the gentle touch on the small of his back.

“Come to bed, Sherlock.” He obediently followed, undressing swiftly and sliding under the covers. He found himself clinging to Molly, wrapping her tiny body in his own. She held him back, her face pressed into his chest and her hand gently stroking his arm. Stroking his scars.

 

“I had hoped,” he said softly after a long time, “to be able to protect our children.” There was another long pause, and then:

“We can, in a way. We can’t stop them from making mistakes. We can’t even stop them from making _our_ mistakes. But we can teach them the lessons we learned the hard way, and teach them to trust us, and teach them to love. We can’t ever protect them from pain. Pain will always find them, one way or another. But we can protect them from—losing hope, I guess. Losing joy.”

“Molly Hooper,” he said, rolling over so that he could see the glitter of her eyes in the darkness. The barest shadow of the curve of her lips.

“Molly Holmes,” she corrected, laughing at him silently. “I fought hard for that name.”

“Molly Holmes,” he accepted, “you are surprisingly wise woman for someone with such terrible taste in men.”

“You _like_ my taste in men.”

“The way a criminal likes an unattended cash box. I take advantage.”

“Oh, _please_ do.”

 

Much later, she murmured, “He’ll be alright. We’ll make it so.”

“Yes.”

“He has all of us. And it was only the beginning, thank God.”

“Yes. He is fortunate.”

“Don’t pity yourself, Sherlock.”

He laughed ruefully, marveling again at this woman and her capacity to forgive him.

“Never,” he said, capturing her lips in a kiss, long and sweet. “I’m the most fortunate man in Britain.”

**Author's Note:**

> This started with the image of Sherlock exposing his scars, and grew into this. It still doesn’t say everything I wanted to say. I wanted Sherlock and Molly to talk more about the past— to show how Sherlock went from the man he was to the father he is here. 
> 
> But they wanted to talk about the future instead.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
